


bad luck to talk on these rides

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-12-06 19:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18224354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: “You have your eyes on anyone?” Brady smiles, bright, like they’re two middle schoolers gossiping about crushes. “Do you like-like someone?”





	bad luck to talk on these rides

**Author's Note:**

> so i listened to white ferrari by frank ocean uhh once and decided to write this a good 3 seconds later? this man attacked me with his music and road trip imagery i’m tellin u
> 
> title frm that same song bc i'm predictable

A lot about them has changed over the years, but Quinn can’t remember the last time he looked at Brady’s smile and saw anything but the soft fondness that he keeps tucked right beneath everything else. 

It’s been five years, almost six, and Quinn could write up a bulleted list with hundreds of points of what has changed since they first met. When Brady moved out with shards of his hometown still clenched in his fists, his homesickness written out on the lines of his face. When Quinn was quiet and shy and refused to talk to anyone but his small group of friends. 

But he’s never going to forget this: Brady’s smile. 

It’s always been a really nice smile.

 

 

About a minute after they’re let out of class, a message pops up on Quinn’s phone screen.

_how u getting home??_

It’s Brady. Quinn glances up to see him heading down the hall towards him, a little curl on his lips.

Quinn ignores him, glancing down at his phone to type out a quick, _not w you that’s for sure_

Brady rolls his eyes as he approaches him, knocking a fist against Quinn’s shoulder. It’s all fond, like Quinn isn’t deliberately trying to glare daggers at him. “Hey,” he says, pocketing his phone. “Let me drive you? Kinda owe you that much.” 

Quinn wants to breeze right by him, but he shrugs instead, just a little up and down of his shoulders. “You’re apologizing for, uh, not taking any of the same electives as me or?” 

“You’re lame.” Brady frowns. “C’mon, do you really think I wanted to do computer science?” 

He says it like it’s a dirty word, rolling off his tongue just to leave a bitter taste lingering behind. Quinn wants to reach out and shove him, but starting a fight the year he’s supposed to leave this hell doesn’t sound like a fantastic idea. A fight that, mind you, would probably never end in his favour. 

“Oh yeah? Fuck you, go give someone else a ride,” Quinn snipes anyways, pushing past him. 

He’s not really mad, he thinks, this just gives him a reason to bully Brady into apologizing. And that’s always fun to see, especially since it’s Brady who’s gotta tuck his tail between his legs and stomp down his confidence a notch or two. Confidence that he’s got way too much of. 

Plus, Quinn’s got bus fare _and_ a social life. He can get home a multitude of other ways. 

Going home with Brady, though, he wouldn’t really protest it. Not on the usual day, at least. 

“Quinn, c’mon,” Brady begs, trailing behind him as they head down the hall. “Quinnie. Quintin.”

“Didn’t I tell you that you’re not allowed to call me that?” Quinn says, and turns his head just to see Brady making some pleading expression at him. Twisted mouth, drawn eyebrows, a lost look on his face.

“Well, I mean, you can call me whenever you want,” Brady says, breaking his demeanour. It’s not at all smooth, even as he gets an arm over Quinn’s shoulder. 

It takes every inch of his willpower to keep from wilting into Brady’s side. And then even more of that willpower to keep from taking that as an apology. 

“I really, really don’t like you,” he says.

“Man, we are gonna get along great.”

“I think the whole getting along thing died in middle school.” Quinn’s trying not to think back to it, because it was a pretty shitty time of his life. Not because of puberty, or braces, or the whole middle school thing, but it’s when he met Brady. 

“I mean, yeah, despite that,” Brady says, waving his free hand. “Our friendship is still a lot more engaging than computer science, though.” 

Quinn huffs and shakes his arm off. 

 

 

“I’m going to tell everyone you kidnapped me, held me hostage, _and_ listen to Drake,” Quinn says, poking at the radio presets just to disconnect from the bluetooth. “Not even the good Drake, like, 2017 Drake.” 

“Whatever,” Brady says, throwing his gaze over when they slow to a glide at a stop sign. “You listen to, I don’t even know, hipster music.” 

Quinn unwillingly breaks out into a grin, shaking his head. “That’s not. Hipster music isn’t a thing, I don’t do that.” 

“You listen to whatever isn’t _mainstream_ ,” Brady says dismissively, focus glued back to the road. He rolls his eyes. “You want me to literally dig up lost Drake records from the ‘00’s.” 

“Good music is a grind,” Quinn says, by means of explanation, and Brady glances over again, looking a little like he’s caught between arguing and reluctantly agreeing. 

It doesn’t really matter. Quinn thinks he forgives him.

 

 

Quinn can drive his own damn self to school the second his car comes out of the shop, but Brady still entertains the idea of driving him to and from every other day. They live close by enough that it isn’t much of an issue ever, but with the way Quinn can’t get his thoughts straight enough early in the morning to text Brady _i’m fine_ , he ends up hitching a lot of rides.

Like, a lot.

Quinn’s pretty sure driving a car is like riding a bike, you never forget how to do it. But with the amount of time he’s had his car parked idly in the garage, he’s afraid he’s really going to forget what to do with it. 

But it’s just so easy, to keep his lips together and slip into Brady’s car in the early mornings. When everything is a little hazy and he can tune out whatever soft tune Brady’s got thumping on the stereo to press his head against the glass and shut his eyes. 

They never talk much in the mornings, aside from the _hey_ ’s paired off with the occasional chatter about classes, but everything else fades away to a sleepy quiet. Where the sun is still barely tucked underneath the horizon, shining dully enough that Quinn can let himself shut his eyes just to soak it in. 

And sometimes—he’ll look over at Brady and watch the way the light catches on his lashes, or plays around in his eyes, or how it strikes a line down the side of his face, just bright enough to turn to glitter. 

It’s dreamy and beautiful and within arm’s length of him. 

Sometimes Quinn forgets to be careful.

 

 

The funniest part of all of this is that you wouldn’t peg him as the kind of guy to have feelings for his closest friend. Quinn’s smart. He was an honour roll student last year, and the year before, and the one before, he can tell the difference between something that puts him on the rocks and something easy. He knows how to be careful.

This, though, this one thing flew over his head and it’s ruined him ever since. 

 

 

Brady doesn’t know how to appropriately use the iMessage app on his phone, so he texts Quinn when they’re six feet away from each other and doesn’t text him before randomly showing up at his front door. 

“I’m supposed to be babysitting Luke, you gotta leave,” Quinn says, even if Luke is probably the only Hughes brother smart enough to exist without the entire world pitted against him.

“Luke’s cool,” Brady says, grinning obnoxiously because they both know Quinn isn’t actually going to kick him out.

“Let him in,” Quinn hears over his shoulder, followed by a quick, “dumbass.” 

“ _Hey._ ”

He turns around to frown at Luke, who’s snickering behind his phone, and Brady looks like a proud father when Quinn turns his attention back to him. 

“They grow up fast, huh?” 

“You’re just a bad influence,” Quinn says, and holds the door open for him. 

 

 

Quinn banishes Luke to his room and takes over the xbox, watching Brady pop Mortal Kombat into the disc slot. 

They play around for a few minutes, throwing chirps at each other even while they play on the exact same team, until Brady says, on the loading menu, “I met a girl.” 

Quinn feels way too many things at once to really make much of it, his stomach churning with something sickly before he can even get anything out. He stares at the loading bar for another second before saying, “yeah? What’s her name?” 

“I mean, like,” Brady tries, pausing. “I didn’t _meet_ meet her, but we talked for like a minute in bio and she laughed at my jokes, man. That’s when you know it’s real.” 

Quinn raises his eyebrows at him, because he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be desensitized to this whole thing by now, but he still catches himself wishing he didn’t have to deal with it. It’s an envious thought, something dark and quiet in the corner of his mind. 

Quinn’s supposed to be sitting here listening to him wax poetic about someone else. Which is—yeah, it’s great that Brady’s taken a liking to a girl because it’s exactly how he’s going to end up someday. With a pretty girl in suburban fucking Boston or something, maybe there’ll be a dog or two, but Quinn’s not supposed to be lingering on that right now. Because. This is a grave he dug himself.

“Dude,” Brady says, snapping two fingers in his face.

“Um,” Quinn says. The game loaded and he’s choosing to focus on the screen instead, just because it’s a lot more of a safe bet than blurting something stupid out. “No, yeah, absolutely.” 

Brady blinks at the side of his head. Once, twice, and laughs over Quinn’s shitty taste in fighters a minute later.

 

 

There’s no truth in the way Brady tells him, “I’m not even drunk,” on his eighteenth birthday. _Quinn’s_ eighteenth birthday, actually, where Brady vowed to get him drunk off his ass while barely able to hold his own liquor. 

It doesn’t make sense that Quinn has that much of an edge over Brady when it comes to at least faking his sobriety, especially with all things considered. Brady should most definitely not be a lightweight. 

But, “Quinn, I’m so. I feel, like, fucking fantastic. Do you feel that?” Brady’s pressed to his side on the couch, and they’re at his place, because surprise parties with booze are a fucking go-to at this point. One that Quinn is already sick of. Literally and figuratively.

“Not even a little,” Quinn tells him, and tries to get to his feet without his head spinning alongside the room. “I’m gonna, um. I’m gonna go find a trashcan and puke my guts out, man.” 

One of the guys is playing something shitty and upbeat loud enough that the ground seems to tremble with it. Every step he takes feels like walking on a tightrope. 

Brady takes note of that, because, “yeah, you are definitely feeling it,” he says. “First time for everything, kiss your booze virginity goodbye.” 

Brady sits up as Quinn leaves the room, his cocky smile on full display all the way until Quinn rips his eyes away from it to find a bathroom.

 

 

Quinn wakes up in the middle of the night tucked into bed with a water bottle on the nightstand next to him.

Brady’s arm is thrown over his waist.

His heart aches with how fast it’s beating and for just long enough for it to count, he can pretend he’s dreaming. 

 

 

“Eat lunch with me,” Brady says, dropping his backpack down on the table in front of Quinn. 

Quinn looks up, trying not to let anything puzzled show up on his face. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Did you know I eat lunch with you everyday?” 

“Yeah, I _did_ know that, thank you so much,” Brady rolls his eyes. “I mean, eat out with me. I’ll take you to the new joint that opened, like, down the street. The burger place.”

Quinn stares at him for a minute. Then, after collecting himself, says, “like. The cool looking one?”

“That one,” Brady confirms, like he can really read Quinn’s mind.

“That isn’t down the street, you fucking moron, that’s literally a fifteen minute drive.”

“Okay, and?” Brady makes this little motion with his hand, like he’s asking Quinn to keep talking just to confirm what exactly is wrong with all of that. 

“I have a class in forty minutes?” 

Brady sighs, long suffering. “Do I have to spell everything out for you?” He asks. “Just skip it. One class. What do you have?”

Quinn glares at him.

“Computer science?” Brady prods, grinning, and when Quinn doesn’t respond right away, he says, “awesome, that’s even better.” 

“But what if I don’t want to skip?” It’s in that tone that means Brady’s already won. He’s just not going to let him know he caved that easy.

Neither of them fall for it, but Brady leans in and plays along anyways. 

 

 

“You know, you gotta let me take the bill at least once,” Quinn says, trying for friendly. “It makes me look bad.” 

“I’ll let you take the bill when you stop ordering off the kids menu,” Brady says, patting his shoulder.

Quinn nearly trips over himself. “Oh, nice. Short jab.”

Brady nods helpfully. “Or when you get out of the highchair, yeah?” 

“I’m taking the next bill, I don’t give a shit what you say.” Quinn tips his chin up so he can look Brady in the eyes when he twists his expression into something serious, really punctuating his statement with it. 

Brady doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, while they walk out to his car. And then, “okay,” he accepts. “Next time we go out.” 

Quinn feels something flip flopping in his chest, this little buzz he’s grown all too familiar with. But he’s never going to be used to it, that little liquid rush of warmth that passes through him with every little bit of Brady he experiences.

“You got any shitty classes tomorrow?” Brady asks.

Quinn laughs. “ _No_ , not tomorrow. I’m broke.” 

 

 

There’s something about Brady’s smile that hits Quinn right in the chest, it’s this secret weapon he uses to get exactly what he wants whenever he wants and Quinn is absolutely vulnerable to it. 

Because, “c’mon, one ride,” Brady pleads, a minute before the morning bell rings. A minute before Quinn is late to his first class, actually, but Brady‘s waving around his brand new car keys with a tiny smile on his face.

Quinn’s always loved that smile. It’s unfair, really, how Brady’s somehow picked up on that throughout the years. 

“I have a class, if you keep pulling shit like this I’m not even going to graduate,” he huffs, slinging his bag over his shoulder just to make a break for the hallway that leads to his calc class. 

That’s all he’s gotta do. Go to calc, take a few steps in the right direction, and he’s home free. 

But, “ _Quinnie_ ,” Brady practically coos, and all Quinn registers before there’s a sturdy arm looping around his waist is the sound of car keys jangling. 

“Class. Calculus. My fucking future.” 

“Okay, okay.” Brady gives his waist a squeeze and starts leading him towards the exit. Quinn could plant his feet and refuse to move, but he just sinks right into him. “You’ve got that, now let me raise you: brand new Chevy.” 

Something burns into his head, like, if you didn’t know them you’d think they were dating. With the way Brady’s arm is locked around Quinn, and how Quinn had so easily given in after that. But. That isn’t this. 

“Your Chevy is dumb.” 

“Tell me that again in two minutes,” Brady argues. And there’s pretty much a wide open window for insults and chirps right there.

But two minutes later, Quinn definitely isn’t complaining.

 

 

“Her name is Ciel,” Brady says, while dumping a beaker of something green and purple into the sink in the chem lab. 

Quinn watches the liquid swirl down the drain, looking up only when Brady knocks his hand on the counter. 

“Sorry, what? Ciel who?” 

“The girl,” Brady says vaguely. “From before.”

“Oh, right, the one you had heavy game with,” Quinn nods along with that, trying to look at least a little amused. “How’s that going?”

“So, uh.” Brady scratches the back of his neck. “She’s got a boyfriend, which is cool, I guess. Really pretty couple.” 

Quinn watches his face curiously, trying to figure out what exactly passes over it at that. He says, slowly, “that’s good for them.” 

“What about you?”

“Me?” Quinn passes him another beaker, this one stained with another colourful concoction. “What _about_ me?”

“You have your eyes on anyone?” Brady smiles, bright, like they’re two middle schoolers gossiping about crushes. “Do you like-like someone?”

Quinn has to fight the urge to groan and face palm, because he’s got gloves on and he has no idea what the fuck his hands are covered in. “No,” he says. “No, Brady, I don’t like-like someone. Are you ten?” 

“A ten outta ten,” Brady tells him, and turns the tap on. 

 

 

When Brady shrugs his lab coat off, Quinn watches his arms and—he shouldn’t. There isn’t a single moment he can think of when he _should_ , when it could be excused, but he does.

It gets worse, because just as Brady peeks towards him, he catches his eye. It’s all warm, still anything but shy, because the gaze lingers long enough for Brady to pull away himself. 

Quinn blows out a breath and stares down at his hands, looking for answers.

Unsurprisingly, they don’t give him any.

 

 

When Quinn shuts the car door behind him, the first thing he gets out is, “sorry it took me so long, I had to talk to Mr. S about some overdue assignments—shit, thank you so much for waiting.” 

Brady doesn’t look up from his phone until Quinn wavers for about three seconds, sitting on edge. He throws his bag into the backseat, slings his seatbelt on, and Brady barely gets out a, “no, yeah, that’s fine.” 

Quinn frowns, feeling guilty all of the sudden. He has no idea why. He can practically feel how tense the air is. “Dude, what’s wrong? You need to talk about shit?” 

“What?” Brady clicks his phone off, letting out this shuddery breath. “I’m actually. I’m really fine, honestly, I’m just gonna.” He runs a hand over his hair, eyes latched onto the empty parking spot in front of them. “I’m gonna drive.” 

Quinn swallows, once. He feels his throat click and tries to swallow around that, feeling something heavy on his shoulders. Enough that he feels them weighing down and down and down. Enough that it pulls his spirit low with it. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.” 

 

 

 _i still think we should talk_ , Quinn sends, waiting ten minutes after getting dropped off at his place just so he doesn’t catch Brady while he’s driving. 

He knows this could possibly be the wrong thing to do, because Brady is not one to be much more than closed off when something’s bugging him. But there is only so much of an awkward car ride that Quinn can go through before cracking. 

_fr u gotta calm down there’s nothing to talk abt_ , Brady types back, and follows that up with, _and no u can’t call me_

Quinn waits a minute. Two. _i’m gonna call u. u don’t have to pick up but i’m calling u_

 

 

“You’re annoying when you’re like this,” Brady says the second he picks up, instead of greeting him. Like, politely.

“I know.” Quinn’s sympathetic about it, at least. “I just give a shit about you. I wanna make sure you don’t do something stupid that you’re gonna regret just because you’re pissy.”

“So you’re babysitting me,” Brady says. He sounds exhausted. And Quinn gets that, they only just got off school, but this is a different kind of exhausted. Something hollowed out and barren. Something unfamiliar.

“You’re too complicated for me to babysit.” Quinn stares up at the ceiling, toying with a loose thread at the ankle of his joggers. “Is this about Ciel? Are you bummed about girl trouble right now?” 

Brady doesn’t say anything for long enough for Quinn to think it’s true, but, “no, that’s not—it’s not Ciel. This is so fucking stupid. It’s, uh.” 

Quinn’s on the edge of his seat, waiting for an answer long enough that he starts taking pity on Brady, torn apart by the silence. “My parents aren’t home, come over. We can have snacks and watch a movie.” 

Brady breathes into the line, and Quinn’s still playing with the loose string. “Okay. We can do that.” 

 

 

Brady’s hands are hidden in the pockets of his hoodie when Quinn opens the door, and a lot of something flies across his face before anything coherent comes out. 

Which, Quinn was expecting a _hi_ or something. But Brady’s standing on his front porch, the sun nearly creating a halo behind him. His hair’s long overdue for a cut, catching rays, and his eyes are turned down and dull. The point is, he looks beautiful when he says, “it’s you, actually.” 

So maybe nothing coherent ever leaves Brady’s mouth when he’s in a mood. Quinn can work with that. 

“It’s. Me?” He smiles a little, making room so Brady can step in past him. “Wanna explain?” 

Brady swallows. “Probably not, sorry, that was—“

“It’s okay,” Quinn says, reaching out to touch his shoulder. It’s his quiet way of telling him he’s here, and judging by the way his expression turns to something warm, Quinn decides he gets that across. “Snacks.”

 

 

They end up on the couch together with a bowl of popcorn and some mini bags of chips from halloween strewn on the coffee tabletop. Quinn’s head is tilted just enough that he can rest it on Brady’s shoulder, and he can zone in and out of focusing on the movie playing on the TV.

Quinn’s pretty sure it’s something they’ve both seen maybe 6 times a piece, but it’s still nice to see it together. And the way Brady’s one long line of warmth against him makes it feel like this is their first time seeing it all over again. 

They eat popcorn, empty out bags of chips, and whenever their hands brush, Quinn thinks back to Brady at the door. Brady, against blue skies that made his eyes just that much prettier. Brady, whose presence could send Quinn’s pulse racing in seconds. Brady, Brady, Brady, Quinn’s head keeps spinning right back to him and he’s dizzy with it. 

Later, when Quinn looks up, he can see pink sitting comfortably on Brady’s cheeks and he nearly has to slap his own hand away to keep from reaching out to touch. 

It’s not difficult. Hanging out with Brady has to be something that comes as second nature to him.

 

 

They don’t do much talking. They don’t do any talking, actually, not until Brady has to leave.

When Quinn pulls together the strength in his legs to get up from where he’s just about made a home on the couch, his legs are like jelly underneath him. 

Brady slips his shoes on in a companionably silence while Quinn taps the beat of a song out against the door. 

Then it’s, “good night, man,” from Quinn, who offers up and smile and a wave, and.

All things considered, he isn’t expecting it when Brady leans in to kiss him. It isn’t anything like it comes out of nowhere, Quinn can see it happening. He watches the lead in with his eyes, feels the buzz in his lips, and the slide of Brady’s skin beneath his fingertips. 

All of that, and Quinn barely registers the part where he’s kissing Brady Tkachuk.

It ends too soon, but Quinn can feel it even after pulling back. If he closed his eyes, he’d be right back there. Kissing him. But he’s not going to do that, as much as he’d like to.

“I’m really bad with words,” Brady says. His voice is hesitant, eyes zeroed in on Quinn like he’s waiting for some telltale reaction. “I didn’t know what to say. I just thought. Me and you, yeah?”

“Oh,” Quinn says, because saying anything right now seems completely off the table. 

Brady seems to shrink in on himself, which is almost impossible with how tall he is, but Quinn’s seen it enough to know it well. “Is that okay?” His mouth is red.

“Yeah, actually.” Quinn’s smiling, reaching out to wrap his fingers around Brady’s wrist. “It is okay,” he says, just as he’s lifting himself to the balls of his feet.

Brady can dip down as much as he needs, but Quinn still wants the satisfaction of meeting him halfway. 

And he gets it. Over and over and over.


End file.
